Thursday, March 29, 2012

Kee and I have been doing pretty well going on our walks every morning lately. Yesterday, she's the one who didn't feel like it; but today, it was totally my fault.

There's construction going on over at the school, and they've blocked off our usual entrance. Now, instead of walking across the street and into the school yard, we've got to go up a block and across a (usually) muddy field.

It rained last night and it looks like there's more coming, so I got everyone kitted out in their rain boots for the walk. Even me, in my uber-stylish black galoshes*. So we walked over the field; which, perversely, was not the least bit muddy, instead choosing to be hard and frozen. Stupid field.

I don't know about your rubber boots, but mine are made for squishing around in the garden, not tromping over concrete. So today, it was me and my sore feet that begged out of the walk.

Kee actually fought, because she wanted to go so that we would pass Tim Horton's, where she would get her bribe treat. I promised her that I would make cookies when we got home.

Then I had to make cookies. I didn't have the ingredients for any of my usual cookie recipes, so I had to make one up. But they tasted pretty good, so I'll share the recipe with you. (You know, in case you too one day promise your kid to make some cookies before you check in your cupboard to see if you've got any ingredients. )

Cream together both sugars with the butter/margarine. Add egg and vanilla, blend. In another bowl, combine dry ingredients, then sift into wet ingredients. Blend well until a dough forms. Then fold in the M&Ms. You can either roll them into small balls, or drop from a spoon. Place onto a cookie sheet about an inch apart. (Next time I'll be adding some wheat germ and/or ground flax seed.)

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Husband helps her with tooth brushing and potty going. Then he reads her a story while she snuggles on his lap with her Blankie and Baby. When they're finished, she runs out to get me so that I can "tuck her up".

"Tucking up" consists of tucking her into her bed (in an extremely specific order of blankets), telling her a "Princess Kee" story*, and kissing her goodnight (cheek, then forehead, then nose). Then blowing kisses from the door. Then another Daddy hug. The end.

Introducing, "Blankie" and "Baby". Creative naming is not her forte.

This is not how bedtime went last night. Last night, she and Husband had words. There was yelling and tears, and when she ran out to get me, he put his foot down and said that she shouldn't get her Princess Kee story because she wasn't listening or doing what she was asked.

So, no snuggles or kisses for/from me. Which, really, probably made me as sad as her, but I'm a grown up and I'm not about to argue with a disciplining decision in front of the three year old. Daddy said "no", so no.

So I got to listen to her screaming "Mummy! MUMMY! Mummy I NEED YOU! Mummy, I can't go to sleep without my hugs!" at the top of her lungs for the next half hour. Even as she was drifting off, there were sporadic bursts of bellowing. BUT, eventually, fall asleep she did.

Then, at 2:38am, I heard little pattering feet come into my room. She climbed up onto the bed and wriggled into my arms. "Mummy," she said, quietly scolding me, "I told you I can't sleep without my hugs. You should of haven't of not hugged me."

So, I took her back to her bed, tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.

Well played, kid.

*At some point, I realised that my Kee takes lessons to heart more if she learns them through a story. Princess Kee's adventures usually end with her getting in trouble, learning her lesson and making better decisions the next day. Many meltdowns have been averted by asking "remember when something like this happened to Princess Kee?"

Monday, March 26, 2012

Despite that, we looked at a house yesterday. Actually, we looked at two houses yesterday.

The first one sucked. It was a weird layout, and the bedrooms were separated between floors (which just wouldn't work for us, with the two small ones), and the basement smelled like stale cheese. The backyard was ugly and the real estate agent was smarmy. The "eat-in" kitchen was so not an eat-in kitchen. I left that house feeling good. The house was ugly, I didn't want it, the end.

The second house is on a cul-de-sac, where apparently, twelve other children live. They all play together in the middle, after school. The rooms are all fairly small, but there is an extra bedroom AND a playroom. I walked into one of the bedrooms and thought, "Kee". It just felt like it should be her room. By the time we got down to the basement, I was already arranging my furniture. And the basement has a walkout to the back yard.

Oh, my god, the back yard! It's huge. And behind it, there is a pond, and past that, there's a park, and past that, there's conservation area. (And did I mention it's huge?)

And it's two minutes from my sister's new baby* in one direction, and two minutes from the grade school in the other. And it's near hiking trails, and bike trails, and parks.

Of course, when we left the second house, I was light headed and fighting nausea.

Then there was talk about offers and mortgages and lawyers.

I'm a born worrier. I can worry about things that no one else would even think to worry about; so present me with an opportunity to worry about something big and scary that most normal people worry about? Holy crap-pops.

What if we uproot our kids and they're miserable? What if the commute is too long and we never see Husband? What if I'm miserable? What if the house leaks? What if my Grandma has to move? What if it's haunted? What if we lose all our money? What if the pond attracts hundreds of annoying ducks? What if I can't make new friends? What if ...?

What if someone else buys it?

*She lives there too, but let's be honest, I'm in it for the baby. (Just kidding, Stinkerbell!) (It's all about the baby.)

Friday, March 23, 2012

Before winter (what there was of it) set in, I took Kee for a five kilometer walk every morning. Part of the reason that we stopped was that, after a few weeks, she just wouldn't do it.

She would start out in her stroller. Then she would ask to get out; no problem. Then she would want to get back in. Then she wanted to get out. Then she didn't want to walk THAT way. Then she would stand, arms crossed, in the middle of the sidewalk in the rain for ten minutes until I strong-armed her into her stroller and pushed it home like a wheelbarrow because she was trying to drag her feet on the ground so that I couldn't move it without hurting her. Oh, and she usually screamed at the top of her lungs for at least part of our little adventure.

Good times. You can see why I gave up, right?

But now, the weather is nice. Despite the fact that I'm mourning the loss of my pajama days, I am happy to be able to get outside again. I want to start walking, and the only thing standing in my way is about three feet tall.

I figure that my downfall last time was that she was just bored.

So the other day, I convinced her to stop trying to pull me back home after we dropped Beege off by offering to buy her a marshmallow at the "treat store". As she sat, eating her pink, icing covered marshmallow, I contemplated my next move.

When she finished sucking the last sugary crystals off her fingers and wiped her hands on her skirt, I asked, "do you want to see where a wizard lives?" Wide eyed, she nodded her head.

I took her sticky little hand in mine and off we went.

This is the wizard's house. It's surrounded by so many trees that you can only actually see it from this one perspective.Don't worry though, it's a nice wizard.

Robins were everywhere - it being wet and warmish out - and are obviously magical guardians. Of something or other.

How could fairies not live here?

She was so interested in hearing about everything we were seeing, that she made it home* without a single complaint.

By the time we got to our house, we had passed several more fairy dwellings, a bush that was obviously home to gnomes, a power pole that (when climbed) will take you to a magical castle with a sleeping princess (you can tell because of the brambles that engulf the bottom) and a truck delivering shields to knights.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

So. Lately, I've been trying to keep track of what I'm eating. For one thing, it helps me figure out which foods make my butt erupt*. For another, it has helped me figure out why said butt is expanding at a horrendous rate.

The answer to the expansion turns out to be pretty easy: I've been eating too much and not exercising at all. Sadly, most all of my hobbies involve sitting on my ass. And not only have I been eating too much, but I've been eating a lot of crap.

Now, I would be okay with my larger body if I felt fit and healthy inside it. But I don't. I huff and puff as I chase my kids, I get tired easily, and I really (really) don't like to run. All of which hampers my ability to play with my girls. Which just sucks.

And forget all about me for a minute, I feel like I'm being a crappy example for the kids.

So. Back to the "keeping track of what I'm eating" stuff.

I started by just writing down what I was eating, to see if there was a pattern to the sick making. Then I started writing down things like whether I'd managed to leave my house that day or not, and how many calories I was eating. Which can get complicated. (Not whether I've left my house, but the calorie thing.)

Because no two jars of pasta sauce are the same. You might think that one can of tuna is the same as another, but you'd be wrong. Different brands of cheese vary wildly in their caloric content. And some of the serving sizes are just bizarre.

Today, for example, I was making myself dinner, and checking the nutritional info as I went. Everything was going swimmingly until I got to the brick of cheese. A nice tasty marble cheddar, perfect for grilled cheese.

A serving size of said cheese is "1 1/4 inch cube". This effing brick of cheese is an inch wide. About three inches deep.

What the hell, Cheese?!

So I got out a ruler**, and started making inch-and-a-quarter, by one inch, by quarter inch slices. Then I stacked them together until I had the stupid cube. What the hell kind of stupid serving size is that??

And cheese isn't the only food to have irked me so: Why can I find the information for three quarters of a medium sized banana, but not a whole medium sized banana? Why would you give me the calories for five eighths of a can of soup? Why would I eat five and a half mushrooms?

Who was the jerk off who thought that making a person, who may or may not be a little woozy with hunger, do fractions before she can eat her dinner was a good idea? WHO?!

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

This winter has been lovely. Almost no snow, and not even cold enough for long johns. Yet people were still saying they couldn't wait for spring.

Well, here it is. Or isn't, really, because it's going to be twenty-freaking-seven today. That, people, is summer.

Why would I be complaining about this? Well... I have a confession:

I wear pajamas all winter.

It's true. I wear my pajamas ALL THE TIME. There are snowpants (which I also wear, both to be a good example and because I hate being cold, dammit) and hats, and mittens, and boots, and scarves, and extra socks to worry about putting on my children; I don't have time for frivolous things such as changing my own clothes. So I just throw my winter clothes on over whatever I woke up in*.

I can hear some of you gasping.

I do get dressed if there's time, I swear, but when I'm getting the kids ready to get out the door in the morning, the first things to go if we're running late are anything to do with Mummy feeling more human, like hair brushing and real pants.

But you know what? It's kind of nice to not have to worry about whether my jeans are clean or I can find a bra, because winter clothes cover a multitude of fashion faux pas. Such as wearing your pajamas all day.

This winter, I had to wear proper pants (which was bad enough), but now it's not even May and I've got to wear a bra? This stinks.

Besides that, it's HOT. It's SHORTS weather. And I HATE shorts. I thought I could avoid that particular horror until June.

Spring is usually a nice time when flowers are blooming, birds are chirping and I can ease myself back in to wearing proper clothes.

I'm sure that not everyone is on my side here, but where has the "fifteen and rainy" weather gone?

*Please note that while I wear pajamas most of the winter, I do change them every day, so it's not as bad as you thought. Right?

Monday, March 19, 2012

For some reason, I tend to dread school holidays. Especially the ones that last a week or more. We don't go anywhere fancy, and generally my husband doesn't take time off to hang out with us. So we're stuck in the house because Mummy hasn't managed to get her driver's license yet and can't imagine taking these little heathens anywhere that requires a long transit ride.

This year... the March Break was great. Really. (I didn't expect that either.) Usually, it's too yucky to play outside, and they end up releasing their pent up energy on each other (and the furniture), while I follow behind them pleading with them to stop. (Which is rather ineffective, and I wouldn't recommend the technique to anyone.)

I planned absolutely nothing.

And it went great. We built a fort, we watched some movies, we had a dance party and did some crafts. The weather was amazing, so we got to play outside. Kee even went to stay with my mum for a couple of nights so that Beege and I could have a Mummy-Beege day all to ourselves, where she got to pick whatever she wanted to do. She picked the library and Wendy's for lunch; I love that kid.

My absolute favourite moment from the March Break.

And now, before we've even gotten completely sick of each other, it's back to school.

Of course, I did spend yesterday in bed, sweating and trying not to throw up, so they could have been totally horrible for the last day.

I loved it. Not only is she hilarious (you've seen The Office, right?), but before she got all famous, she used to be a huge nerd who did everything her parents told her, which gives me hope.

The book is a series of essays on a wide variety of topics, including: What Mindy thinks makes a great best friend, what she thinks makes a great guy and what is the perfect amount of fame. They are well written, and the perfect length to sneak away, read, and be back before your children realise you're gone and start killing each other.

This book of ten short stories was a finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize and the Commonwealth Prize for Best First Book in Canada and the Carribean. (I have to admit that I had never heard of it and picked it up on my way past the rack because it had "cake" in the title. I have a very sophisticated method of selection.) Each story focuses on a relationship in the moment that it changes forever.

I am glad that I picked it up because she is an excellent writer; her characters complex and realistic. An interesting read, although I gotta say, I found it a little depressing.

While this book was written for 8-12 year olds, I'd recommend it to anyone. The book is about a sixth grade girl named Miranda who recieves a note one day that changes her life.

" I am coming to save your friend's life, and my own.I ask two favors. First, you must write me a letter. "

As the story continues, Miranda believes more and more that she is the only one able to prevent a tragic death. The story, while at it's heart is about changing friendships, centers around an intricate mystery with a very satisfying conclusion.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Did you know that yesterday was a holiday? Me neither, but apparently, it was "Mommy I Love You Day."

About a week ago, I found this note on the fridge.

Stuck on top of some finger painting - the fridge is clean and white, I swear.

Beege made it up. Which may seem strange, but we've been known to celebrate made up holidays around here; the nut doesn't fall far from the tree, I guess.

She decided that Mother's Day was too far away and that I should really get a day to sleep in now. (I may have been a little whiny lately?)

Anyway. Mommy I Love You Day consisted of breakfast in bed, some beautiful flowers from Husband (he's learned to just go with the non-standardised holiday thing at this point), and getting to "sleep in" (aka: sleep until such a time as normal people get up).

But the fun didn't end there! We played board games all morning [and I got to pick, so Candyland (otherwise known as the most boring game in the world) stayed in the cupboard], had happy meals for lunch (with which I got a pink My Little Pony), and then spent the afternoon playing their new Rapunzel Wii game.

I even got taken out to dinner, where Beege very proudly told anyone who walked by what day it was.

Aside from a few minor skirmishes at home, and the requisite potty-training-preschooler five trips to the bathroom at the restaurant (where Kee's backpack got set in something wet on the back of the toilet, which I can't help thinking of as "toilet juice," so now I feel the need to never touch it again, so I've got to get her a new one), I had a perfectly lovely day.

Friday, March 9, 2012

**When we last saw our heroine, she was at the dentist's office, cowering on the floor, surrounded by a team of judgemental hygienists. She had let this happen. She had ruined her daughter's perfect mouth. Sobbing and hanging her head, she accepted the blame that she knew to be hers. **

Okay. No. It wasn't like that. The hygienist, very politely, pointed out the cavity, and on the way out we made an appointment to bring her back and have it filled.

"They'll be putting her out with gas for the filling," the receptionist said cheerfully, as she handed me the appointment card. "Oh. Okay," I mumbled absently, as I stuffed the card in my purse and hustled the kids out the door.

How could this have happened? We don't let the kids have candy, except for special occasions, and even then, nothing gummy that might get stuck between tiny teeth. A cavity? They don't drink pop. APPLE JUICE. Okay, Kee isn't allowed to have apple juice anymore. That's the likely culprit. How could I have not noticed? But we water it down! And she only has it once or twice a day. Oh my god, the guilt. We brush her teeth every day... wait a second. Not we.

I swung around and pointed an accusing finger at my husband. "YOU!""What?"

I fumed all the way home. I'm not saying that I was being entirely reasonable, but my husband is responsible for three things in our house*: taking out the garbage, doing bath time and brushing teeth.

I couldn't help thinking that maybe he hadn't concentrated properly while brushing her teeth. Maybe he just wasn't being thorough. Had he even been brushing those back molars?

A couple of hours later, I was still brooding over it. They were going to have to drill into my baby's tooth. They were going to pry her tiny jaw open and stick a needle in her face. They were going to gas her. Great. A brand new thing to be worried about.

I managed to put it out of my mind for most of the next month. Except of course, when I was brushing her teeth and that tiny black spot taunted me with my sub par parenting.

Leading up to her appointment, we talked with her about what was going to happen. So, she was not worried. I of course, was. Remember how I get swimmy when the needles come out? I kind of thought I might barf when I saw the gas mask. And they might have to give her a needle anyway. So I might barf and then pass out and fall in it.

On dentist day, Kee was pretty excited about going and getting her "cabbity" fixed. Husband took the day off to drive us down there so we wouldn't have to go on the subway (you know, just in case someone threw up or something).

When we got there, the first thing we saw when we walked into the office was the tiny mask. Much less menacing than those needles. I swear to god, they were as big as my head.

It was so small. Kind of cute, even.

They set her up in the chair, watching Sesame Street, with her blanket in her hand. They covered her little face with the mask. They said it was a pretty small cavity, so they wouldn't need to give her a needle -- sorry, "sleepy juice"**-- and they got to work.

Seeing this was probably the worst part.

They don't use giant metal clamps to keep your mouth open anymore; they have soft rubber wedge thingies that they slide in between your jaws. They also don't use ugly dirt coloured metal to fill the cavity anymore; they use lovely tooth coloured stuff, so you don't look like you've got stuff stuck in your teeth for the rest of your life. Even the drill is quieter. They had vanilla flavoured gas for frack's sake! That's practically aromatherapy.

She was done in five minutes.

I worried on and off, about various random horrible things, for a month and it was over in five minutes. Which was a relief... but you know...all that worrying...

I listened as the dentist explained that the cavity had been caused by a malformation of enamel on the biting surface. So, not inadequate brushing? Nope. Genetic.

They also praised me for bringing her in. Apparently a lot of people don't listen to the dentist about things like filling baby teeth, because they figure they're just going to fall out.***

So. Not only can I still blame the cavity on my husband (he's got terrible teeth, it's totally on him), and not blame myself for not seeing it earlier, but I am also super smart and responsible.

In short; I am the best mother ever.

*You know, other than working at some "job" place somewhere to earn money and support us all; but technically, that's not "in our house." (Thank you, Husband!)**The term the dentist used. Apparently, this is what they say instead of "big honking needle full of novocaine" now.Pretty sure this is not a real medical term.***Leaving it to grow can lead to things like abscesses, spacing issues and having to pull whole teeth out at a later date. Which can be really painful, gross and/or expensive. So don't do that.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

When I was a kid, going to the dentist meant boredom. I had to remember to bring a book for the tiny waiting room, because I was likely going to be there for a while, shuffling my feet and avoiding eye contact.

I remember the mobile of little sail boats that hung above the chair. I would alternate watching the boats and counting the ceiling tiles, as my dentist went to work on my teeth.

When I was a little older, they got a series of John Lim prints for their exam rooms. I would sit, with the trays of oozing flouride against my teeth, staring at those rotund people with their sideways circular heads for what seemed like hours.

Don't get me started about fillings. I have several. It's not my fault though; I have deep molars, my dentist said so. Some of these fillings weren't even for cavities, they were "preventative."

I can't un-see the giant needles they used to freeze my face. One time, they had to use about five needles on me, because my face just would not freeze. My dentist hit a nerve* and my jaw hurt for weeks. To this day, I am terrified of needles. The first time I took Beege to get a needle, everything went swimmy and black, and the nurse had to hold her because they were worried I'd drop her.

All those metal clamps and horrible rubber things and spit vacuum hanging out of my mouth while they used the world's loudest drill to dig into my teeth... I still shudder.

Going to the dentist today is not what I remember from when I was a kid. Could not be more different. They've got new swanky offices, with a huge waiting room.

No one has to be worried about being bored while waiting, because we've brought an iPhone, an iPad, and books.

They've got TVs hanging from the ceiling above the chairs in the exam rooms, so you couldn't count the ceiling tiles even if you wanted to. They've got more channels at the dentist's office than I have at home.

When we left, we got loot bags. Seriously. We left the dentist's office with a bag full of brightly coloured, character covered, dental loot. Three different kinds of tooth floss, people.

Seriously. Like a birthday party.

I used to get a boring old plain toothbrush and a lecture about flossing.

It went remarkably well. We managed to be seen in an order that allowed a parent to be with a child at all times**. No one whined. No one threw up. It was practically a miracle.

Kee was the last one to get her teeth cleaned. Everything was going well, until the hygienist looked up at me and said, "she's got a cavity," in what I can only describe as an accusatory tone***. Shame washed over me and my face turned bright red. "What?!" I was too shocked to even be polite.

"Right there," she said, poking at Kee's back molar. "You can see it."

Oh my god. I could see it. My three year old has a cavity.

I am the worst mother ever.

To be continued...

*This may have been more painful than childbirth. It's hard to say. I actually screamed.**Except for like, three minutes, but the receptionists love Beege and she sat with them and played on the iPhone.***I'm pretty sure, looking back, that there was no tone. The hygienist is very nice and generally not the type to get all tone-y with you.

As with most things, accepting these prestigious awards comes with a few rules. First, the Cute one:

1. Link back to the person who gave me the award (done already).2. Follow the person who gave me the award (uh-huh).3. Display the award on my blog (done).4. List five of your favourite things (coming).5. Pass the award on to 5 other bloggers (will do!).

Five of My Favourite Things By: Skwishee

1. Getting into a bed made with sheets fresh from the dryer after having a bath. (And I'd like it even more if I had a decent tub.)2. When my girls come in and snuggle me in the morning instead of yelling for me from their room.3. Sunbeams and disco balls (in my mind, they go together).4. A day when everything just goes well.5. Getting proper mail - by which I mean a real letter or an exciting package.

Now for "Kreativ": The rules here appear to be ten random facts and pass it on. So, ten random facts:

My Ten Random FactsBy: Skwishee

When I was in grade four, I wanted to change my name to Grace.I want to learn to build proper furniture.I'm having a tuna sandwich for lunch.

Whining bothers me more than almost anything.I am afraid of fish.I kind of wish I lived on a farm.I often dream about rooms that change shape while I'm in them.I'm scared to death of buying a house; I'm almost positive it will be haunted.I wish I could live in a craft store.I think it would be great to have a "pensieve" like in Harry Potter; it would be really nice to be able to actually empty my head every once in a while.

And now, to pass on the love (I'm giving these bloggers both awards at the same time - seems expedient):

Eke at Candy for Breakfast, a blog that is both extraordinarily cute and very creative.Marianne at We Band of Mothers, who is just awesome.Jen at My Adorable Small Town Life. Again, adorable and creative.Haley at Haley's Comic. She's hilarious. Really, go read, you'll thank me.Stephanie at Clay Baboons, even though I know she doesn't pass them on, because I appreciate her super-creative pee-your-pants-funny stories and think you oughta go look at her site.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

I tend to associate baths with relaxing. You know, have a cup of tea and read a book in a nice warm bath for a while... just the thought is relaxing, right? People in movies and books are always being advised to take a nice warm bath to calm their nerves. It's totally a thing.

For most people, I imagine the decision to have a bath is a fairly easy one. You decide to have a bath, you run the bath, you get in the bath.

At my house, there are a few more steps.

1) Find a book that I'd like to read but wouldn't cry if I dropped it in the bath.

2) Find some clean and comfy pajamas that I'd like to wear upon exit from the bath. (Which is harder some times than others;I have the unfortunate habit of making sure that everyone else has enough clean clothes for the week, but forgetting to make sure that I do.)

3) Inform anyone who may need to use the bathroom that I will be using the bath and they must do anything they think they might need to do before I go in there.

6) Run the bath. Check if there is any hot water coming out of the tap. If yes, continue. If no, stop water, swear under my breath for a while, then try again.

7) Get into the bath.

8) Realise that the only way I can sit and read my book (as I don't want to lean my head on the grotty tub surround that really needs a scrub) is hunched up like a kindergartner at circle time, only less comfortable because I haven't got room to cross my legs.

9) Decide to abandon the book and just lie down and luxuriate instead.

10) Remember just how uncomfortable my bath tub is. If my head is in the water, my knees stick up into the cold*. If my legs are straight, I must either lean on the grotty wall, or sit straight up. (I've tried sort of squinching down in it, but I invariably end up with a sore neck.)

The whole experience generally leaves me a bit pissed off and having a headache from the crick in my neck.

After this, it generally takes a week or so before I forget about how stupid my bath tub is, and how much I hate it.

At which point, you may hear me saying, "I think I'll have a nice warm bath, and read my book."

Now this is a bath tub.

*For some reason, no matter what the temperature of the rest of the apartment, the bathroom is always freezing. I'm pretty sure it's because of the hole in the back of the storage nook (I certainly couldn't call it a closet). There's insulation stuck in it, and a piece of wood over it, but I'm pretty sure that if I stuck my hand through, it'd be outside.

Monday, March 5, 2012

You know how sometimes, you get on a roll? You write something every day for a month or so and it becomes habit? You're really pleased. You're chugging along, and then something happens that derails you.

You miss one day because you've got something you actually have to do.

Then you miss the next day, but swear that you'll FOR SURE do it the next day.

Then your husband takes the kids away for the weekend and you're free to watch movies with swearing in them, and do your Zumba video without a child hanging off your ankle (I'm not quite ready for that level of challenge), and have a bath without interruptions, and cook something that nobody but you likes... and before you know it, the day is over.

Then you miss the next day because the sun is shining so brightly in your bedroom that you'd rather stay in there all morning, crocheting and watching another movie, than venture out into the darkish living room where the computer is kept.

And THEN, you finally DO sit down to write, but you can't write what you'd like to write because your husband has forgotten to put the pictures that you need from his phone onto the computer where you need them, but you know that you need to write something (ANYTHING!) before you get into the habit of not writing?

This is Me:

I am a stay at home mum, a writer, and an artist. I've got three amazing little girls. Beege is 11, Keebee is 9, and Bean joined us in February 2016. They keep me on my toes and don't give me time for much else. They call me Mummy, but most people call me Jessica. Oh, Husband is around here somewhere too. (He's pretty awesome.)